


Of Fate, Thistle, and Twine

by funkytoes



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24002896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkytoes/pseuds/funkytoes
Summary: Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth is soon-to-be-betrothed to King Éomer of Rohan. Will she manage to escape this loveless match? Or will she fianally accept the match and find love despite it all?
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

Lothíriel frowned, gazing down at the many dresses before her. She had to choose wisely, as tonight would be pivotal in the direction her life would take. Her frown deepened. If up to her, she would wear the pale grey dress, for it reminded her of the sea on a foggy morning. But she knew that the men of Rohan had a particular inclination towards green.

In the end, she chose the grey dress. She knew that many young noblewomen would be wearing green tonight, for the express purpose of impressing the King of Rohan. She almost let a bitter thought overtake her, but shook her head, throwing the useless thought out of her mind.

She was thankful for what Rohan had done for Gondor. And her father and brothers all thought highly of the man. No one had promised her hand, it was still her decision after all as well as his. But time was pressed, and she only wished that the idea could have been _hers,_ not something her father had cooked up with his new friend. Deciding this was teetering close to bitterness she threw that thought out of her mind as well.

“My Lady?” her maid asked, standing a few steps behind her.

“The grey one,” Lothíriel instructed. Elaria set the dress on the stand and began to carefully put the other dresses away in the wardrobe.

Lothíriel let the girl work in silence, walking up to the window. Her room, besides her parents, had the most coveted view in the house her family owned and stayed in while in Minas Tirith. From here she could see down the expanse of Minas Tirith, the Pelennor fields, and Osgiliath beyond that. Even farther beyond she could see the distant haze of the Mountains of Shadow. But they bore no threat now, for the Shadow had passed. And Rohan had a strong part to play in that.

She became aware of her maid’s eyes on her, and turned, giving Elaria a forced smile. “Elaria, please fetch me some chamomile tea.”

Elaria curtsied and left quickly, closing the door behind her. No sooner had the door closed it opened again, and her brother stood in the doorway.

Amrothos hesitated in the doorway, before stepping inside. “I was wondering where you were,” he said. “It’s not like you to hide in your room.”

He spoke with humor, but she found it difficult to return his smile.

“Elaria says you asked for chamomile tea. Tell me, sister, is the Pirate Princess nervous?”

Lothíriel found herself smiling wryly at that. “Nervous, me?” she scoffed. “Whatever put that silly thought into your mind?” Yet again, her smile did not reach her eyes, and she turned back to the window.

Her brother walked up beside her, and together they stared out, down the great white stone buildings.

“A _tharni_ for your thoughts?” Amrothos finally asked, his gaze still directed out the window.

Lothíriel knew he must know what she was thinking. She had thought of little else since August, when her father had returned from Edoras. He had been surprisingly pleased, considering he had been attending a funeral. It did not take long after his return that she had learned of his budding friendship with the new King Éomer and their discussion of her as the king’s bride.

_But nothing was decided yet,_ she thought firmly to herself.

Amrothos finally turned his head to look at her, correctly guessing where her dark thoughts had settled on. “He’s a good man, Loth.”

She sighed. “That I do not doubt, although I also do not know it for myself.”

Amrothos nodded his agreement. “But you will,” he said. “You’ll like him. After the battle at the Morannon, and the women returned, it seemed they all were falling over him as if nothing else mattered. And the was _before_ he was crowned king.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know nothing of me, Brother, if you think that is supposed to convince me that he would make a good husband—”

“No,” Amrothos chuckled. “I suppose that was the wrong thing to say.”

Lothíriel said nothing in return, but her ire showed in the tenseness of her shoulders.

She knew she should be happy, for a wedding was a joyous occasion. She dearly loved her cousin and was happy for him. But she was wracked with nerves and the thought that, should things turn out the way her father and King Éomer hoped, her own wedding would not be so joyous. The mere thought sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. She believed that Éomer would be a good husband, for she trusted that her father would never allow her to marry a man he did not trust to be so. Perhaps that was why she was able to face this storm ahead of her with such a level head. She had thrown herself into studying Rohan and its language, culture, and history. She wanted, _needed,_ to know as much as possible.

And she knew that if not King Éomer, it would be another man she most likely would not know well. As the highest born unmarried woman in Gondor, she knew that a love match would never be an option for her. But she still longed for it.

Until August, she had lived under the delusion that through it all, she would still have the chance to fall in love and marry the one she loved. But no more.

“You will be civil to him, at least, won’t you?”

She gave her brother a withering look. “Amrothos, you know I will be perfectly civil.”

“Well,” Amrothos said, a laugh in his voice. “I remember a fisherman’s son who was pushed off a pier when he tried to plant a kiss on your cheek.”

Lothíriel snorted. “Yes, I do believe he received a far worse punishment afterwards when my big brothers found out about said attempted kiss.”

Amrothos grinned at her, before retuning his gaze to the window.

“Ah,” Amrothos moved closer to the window, opening the doors and sticking his head out. The cool breeze typical for the approaching winter filtered in, rumpling his hair. “They’re coming,” he breathed.

Lothiriel’s heart leapt into her throat. She unceremoniously pushed her brother aside and peeked out the window, thankful both that their townhouse was located on the sixth circle, high enough to see the procession, and to be left side of the keel.

Approaching she saw a great host of riders, and wondered if this was how they had appeared as they rode to war last March. They would have had more riders then, she thought. Besides, this was a wedding, not a war. She smiled at the thought. She had not met the bride yet, but Faramir spoke of her so fondly, love so clear in every word he spoke, that she could not help but feel joy for them. The thought sobered her, for she realized she may never have the same luxury.

They were well beyond the Rammas Echor now. She wondered if they had passed through the newly reconstructed northern gate, or they had passed through the still damaged areas. She supposed out of respect they passed through the gate. They were moving slowly, and then suddenly a horse and ride broke free of the rest and began to gallop toward the city gates, still at least a half mile off. Lothíriel gripped the windowsill, and Amrothos squeezed beside her to get a better view. He whistled.

“Who is that, I wonder?” she asked him, as she marveled at the speed of the horse and the mastery of the rider, which she could tell even from this distance. She had never ridden a horse that fast. Her father had always insisted that she ride palfreys, gentle and sweet creatures, bred especially for the soft disposition of ladies.

She snorted at the injustice of it.

“That must be Éowyn,” Amrothos noted. “I figure she must be eager to see Faramir.”

Lothiriel nodded, still watching the horse and rider approach the city.

“You’ll love her,” Amrothos said.

“If she rides like that I think I will,” Lothíriel answered. If the women of Rohan were allowed to ride like that, perhaps this union between herself and King Éomer would not be so unpleasant after all.

She ached at the thought of not living by the sea. Even here, in Minas Tirith, she would often be overwhelmed with a desire to look out upon it. The thought of traveling to a land so different from hers, and so far from the sea, did not bode well for her.

The procession was closer to the gate now. Behind them the door opened, and Elaria entered. “I brought you your tea, my Lady, and some biscuits.”

“Ah, Elaria, you’re a gift to this world,” Amrothos said, grinning as he quickly abandoned the window and walked over to the blushing girl. He took the plate from her, munching on the sweet confections. Lothíriel took a moment to roll her eyes, making mental note to instill in her maid the necessity not to be swooned by her brothers.

Lothíriel walked and met Elaria in the middle of the room, taking the cup of tea into her hands. She sat by the edge of her bed. Glancing down at the cup in her hand, she examined it. It was expertly made—the true mark of a skilled craftsman. To her, someone who appreciated both looking at and creating art, it was rather boring, being nearly perfect to the naked eye. There was barely a flaw visible. She wondered if the earthenware and porcelain of Rohan was this way.

The door opened and her middle brother barged in. “They’re here,” Erchirion said breathlessly. “They’ve arrived.”

At the sudden intrusion Elaria gave a shrill squeak of surprise and nearly dropped the tray.

“We know,” Amrothos said through a mouthful of biscuit. He sat down on the bed besides Lothíriel, who suddenly became every interested in drinking her tea and the benefits it would bestow upon her.

Erchirion ignored his younger brother’s cheeky tone and looked at the open window. “Why is this open? Are you hoping to catch a cold so you can be excused from the promenade tonight?” he walked over and closed it, latching the lock.

“No,” Lothíriel said truthfully, although it was not a bad idea. It was too warm still for her to catch a cold anyway, only being the end of October. Compared to the warmth of Dol Amroth, however, it was a bit cold.

Erchirion turned, balancing on his heels for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back. “Are you nervous?” he finally asked, looking at Lothíriel kindly.

Lothíriel snorted, and then said, as haughtily as she could, “Have you ever known me to be nervous?”

Erchirion and Amrothos shared a glance.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she said, “I have my tea, soon I will have my breakfast. Mother and Valwen survived arranged marriages, and I would like to think they are happy despite it.”

Her brothers looked uncomfortable at her choice of words, but said nothing.

“Really,” she said, taking another sip of tea, hoping it would calm the nerves rattling away in her gut.

“Is this the dress you’re wearing?” Erchirion asked, nodding to the grey gown in a feeble attempt to change the subject.

“Yes,” Lothíriel said, standing. She placed the mug of tea on her bedside table and walked over to the gown. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“I would say he would rather appreciate green,” Erchirion mused. “And you do look rather dashing in the color.”

“Every noblewoman, married or not, will be wearing green,” Lothíriel informed him. “He won’t be able to pick me out of the crowd.”

“Ah,” Amrothos said, a wild twinkle in his eyes, “So you _want_ to catch his attention?”

“You know I am not… _opposed_ to the match,” she said, careful not to let any emotion slip into her voice. “It is certainly not ideal, and if I had free choice I would chose against it, but I wish it had been…” she did not dare continue.

“Wish it had been what?” Erchirion prompted.

She sighed, defeated. “I wish it had been my decision, not the decision of the men around me.”

She could feel their pity, though she was not looking at them. Instead she returned her attention to the dress. True, she _did_ love the color green, and it did look splendid on her, but she _did_ want to make an impression. It was not that she _wanted_ him to notice her. She would have been happy staying in Dol Amroth and not meeting him for the rest of her life. But there was a slight rebellious feeling welling up inside her, growing ever since the news had been given to her. To not go down without a fight. To not succumb to his every whim and fancy. She sighed.

No.

The man did not deserve that. An arranged marriage was befitting of someone of her station. If not him, it would be another nobleman.

“What’s that sigh for?” Erchirion seemed amused, as if he thought her sigh was only an indication of nerves. _He’s not far from it_ , she thought.

“I’m nervous,” she said, deciding not to complicate things. She turned around, “It’s not every day you meet the man who might become your husband.”

“Father and King Éomer seem pretty convinced he will be,” Amrothos said, which earned him a glare from his elder brother. “Well, think about it,” Amrothos said, taking a moment to return his brother’s glare. “His lands are ravished, his people hungry and desperate. They won’t survive the winter without your dowry. Father has already—”

“Amrothos,” Erchirion’s voice rang out like a warning, and Elaria gave a quiet squeak. Amrothos shut his mouth so quickly and hard that Lothíriel heard his teeth click.

“Father already what?” Lothíriel asked, standing, her stomach clenching with fear of what she knew she was about to hear.

Amrothos smiled. “Nothing,” he said, “I don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Tell me!” she ordered, “What has Father already done?”

It was Erchirion who spoke. “He has already started paying your dowry to him in advance.”

Lothíriel felt a cold wave wash over her as the shock of this news settled upon her body and mind. She could not fathom it. She dared not speak, for anger and despair were rising up in her like water from a spring.

“Loth,” Erchirion said, taking a step towards her, but she put up her hand, stopping him.

Her father had so painfully and carefully assured her these past few months that it was _her_ decision. As long as she met him she did not _have_ to marry him, should she chose not to. That she was not being _forced_ into this marriage. That she had the _choice_ to back out. She realized she had no choice at all. Should she refuse the king’s proposal, she would be forcing him to return her dowry, which would not only place shame on him and his country, but perhaps send his people into extinction. Swaying slightly, she walked to the side of the bed, opposite Amrothos, and sat down heavily.

“Loth,” Amrothos said, “I shouldn’t have said anything…I’m sorry.”

She stared at her hands, and said, her voice quavering, “No. I am glad you spoke. It is better that I know.”

Her voice betrayed the feelings welling up inside her, and Erchirion said, “It was only because his people are desperate. You know Father would never force you to—”

“Father _is_ forcing me!” she said harshly. “Don’t you see? _I have to marry him now._ And, most likely as quickly as possible, so the rest of my dowry can be delivered in a timely manner,” she nearly spat.

“I think you’ll like him,” Amrothos said, making a pathetic attempt to console her. “ _We_ all do.”

Lothíriel felt like laughing, but it would have been a cruel, bitter laugh, so she refrained. She could not help the wry smile that crossed her lips. “You should know I could never love a man who would so openly disrespect me behind my back, before we even met.” She turned back to the other side of the room, staring at the tapestry on the wall.

How had things turned out like this? She knew she would have to find her resolve, lest she lash out at the king and he decide he did not want to marry her after all. She would not be responsible for the downfall of Rohan. But that only made her bitterer. _Why her_? she cried out in her mind. No, it would have to be _his_ decision. She only hoped he would somehow find fault with her and chose not to marry her.

She was glad her eldest brother was home in Dol Amroth with his wife and their mother, and his newborn son. _He_ would have told her it was her duty to mary the king of Rohan. That it did not matter how she felt on the issue. She wished suddenly that she had stayed with them. That she did not have to face this storm. She stood up. It was no use.

She would face it.

And she would conquer it.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED…**

**This is one of my oldest, if not my oldest (?) Eothiriel fic. Decided to post it here because I have a couple chapters written out for it so I have a bit of a buffer :)**

**Thanks for reading!**

**See you soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

Lothíriel sent her brothers from her room, claiming she needed time alone, and that she needed room to think. She sent Elaria away, too, and when the girl asked if Lothíriel wished have her breakfast brought to her room, Lothíriel declined the offer, telling the maid that she was too upset to eat.

The maid had looked skeptical at this, but left without complaint.

Lothíriel waited for a short time, before dressing in a simple, green dress, and donning her dark blue cloak, pulling the hood forward so it concealed her face.

She slipped out quietly. She could not run away—though she dearly wished to ride or sail back to Dol Armoth immediately.

No.

She would have to face this head on. She would meet King Éomer at the ball tonight, and she would be courteous and everything a proper lady should be. And he will most likely be pleased with her and decide that he would _indeed_ marry her—if only to receive the rest of her dowry. And she would have to resign to a life of solitude and reverence in a loveless marriage to a man with no consideration for her.

She slipped, unseen, out the garden gate, and onto the quiet street of the sixth circle.

The Rohirrim were stationed outside the city gates, for there were too many of them to find residence within the city. Lothíriel guessed even Lady Éowyn would be staying with them. Her own brothers had told her that both the lady of Rohan and her brother had been invited to stay in King Elessar’s palace, but at least King Éomer had declined the offer, Lothíriel had heard, saying he would stay in the Rohirrim camp.

The closer to the main gates she walked, the busier the city became, as well as more damaged. Although much had been repaired, there were still strong hints and suggestions that a battle had taken place at the gates of this city.

But people were joyful and were enjoying their own early celebrations of the wedding of their Steward, and it was a lovely and lively sight.

Her stomach growled in protest for skipping her meal as she passed the vendor stands. She had no money on her, and was starting to see at least one fault in her plan.

By the time she reached the gate, she noticed a few riders had entered the city. They were tall, though not as tall as her brothers or father, for they in particular towered over most men except for King Elessar. These men had flaxen hair that hung long down their backs, either loose or in braids. They wore greens, muted reds and browns—simple clothing, but comfortable, practical and ideal for riding.

She tugged her hood lower over her face, more to conceal herself from the guards at the gates, who might recognize her, than from the riders themselves.

She made it through the gate without being spotted, and let out a breath of air that she did did not realize she had been holding in.

The riders of Rohan were almost done setting up camp, which surprised her, but she supposed they must be used to using their time wisely and efficiently. She was thankful that they were still occupied, for most ignored her and only sent her a questioning look when she passed into the camp.

She was surprised to find that the rumors were true. Most had golden hair—or even red, which was a rarity in Gondor. Many were taller than she, and she was not much shorter than the average man.

She walked through the camp, never straying too close to anyone, sidestepping any person who might question why she was there or give her trouble. She listened to the conversations, for she understood the language of Rohan well.

She found the men of Rohan intriguing, although their differences to the men she was used to made her find them wanting. They were rough, callous, and their topics of conversations informed her just how callous they could be. They reminded her of the common folk in the farming and fishing villages surrounding Dol Amroth, having the speech similar to soldiers and sailors. But what interested Lothíriel the most were the horses. Large and great creatures _they_ were.

Lothíriel fancied herself a masterful rider, though she had never had the chance to truly test her skills.

Her fretting father had never let her ride any horse that was not the simplest, stupidest, sweetest, and _slowest_ beast alive. She wanted nothing more than to try riding one of these magnificent animals herself, and see if the rumors were true that the horses of Rohan were by far the best in all of Middle Earth.

She rounded a tent and then, recognizing the faces of the men there, ducked around and hid, peering out hesitantly.

King Elessar, her father, Faramir, and what could only be Faramir’s future bride, stood only a short ways away. Lady Éowyn was beautiful, with long hair as golden as the sun, a tall and strong stature, and a captivating face.

They were speaking to a man who stood nearly as tall, perhaps even _as_ tall, as King Elessar. Lothíriel guessed that this would be King Éomer, and thought of how would he size up compared to her. He would tower over her, she guessed. He had to be nearly a foot taller than she!

She could not tell much about him, for he was facing away from her, save that he had long golden hair that hung down his back in a long braid, with broad shoulders and a well built frame. In fact, Lothíriel could not help but admire the man from behind, for he was well muscled and looked quite the strong specimen.

He held himself in a proud and ready stance, but he was relaxed, indicating that he viewed his companions as non-threatening.

Not wanting to be recognized by the three men who _could_ recognize her, she crept away, heading towards the northern side of the camp where most of the horses were being kept. A few men sent her intrigued looks, but did not stop her, which she was thankful for.

Many of the horses were not tethered, and she was impressed that they did not wander. Now she knew that other rumors were also true, and that the horses of Rohan were well trained and loyal to a fault to their riders.

Farther down in the camp she spotted a small audience gathered around a selection of horses. She guessed, or perhaps hoped, that these horses were for sale.

While their herds had been depleted, she knew that any money to come by was well received by the people of rohan at the moment, for their lands and farms needed replenishing as well. There were only six horses for sale, it seemed, at the moment.

When she strayed too close to a horse on her way to the group, the horse reared up in anger. Surprised and frightened, she took a step back and tripped on her cloak, falling hard on her rear. The horse, a massive spotted grey, came down on the ground hard, his hoofs crushing the earth by her feet.

Her brothers’ stories of how well these horses performed in battle came flashing through her mind, and she quickly scrambled backwards away from the horse.

The horse snorted angrily and took a menacing step towards her. Now that she had sparked its wrath there would be no escape—for this horse was also untethered.

She rose quickly, and straightened her back, putting on her gentlest face. She began speaking to the horse with soft, calming words in elvish, hoping to soothe its anger and perhaps escape without losing a finger or gaining a broken foot.

The horse’s ears twitched back as she approached, and he clawed at the ground with one of his front hooves. She put out a hand, daring herself to move forward, but when he snapped his jaws at her, she withdrew her hand, pausing hesitantly. She continued, and as she spoke, she horse began to calm. Smiling, she reached out, palm up, fingers straight. The horse sniffed appreciably, and lipped at her palm with his lips, as if hoping to find something tasty in it.

_“I’m sorry,”_ she whispered, _“I’m afraid I have nothing for you.”_

The horse looked up, and caught her nose with his lips, and she laughed. _“I’ll bring you something nice tomorrow,”_ she told him in elvish.

The horse almost seemed to understand, for he whinnied. Perhaps these horses were not as terrifying as she had originally thought. This one in particular seemed to be more intelligent than the horses she was used to. She glanced over at the horses for sale. Perhaps, even, she would see if there were any that met her fancy. She whispered a regretful goodbye the gray, and headed towards the others. The grey stallion did not follow her, thankfully.

There were five men from Minas Tirith examining the horses, and two riders with them.

As soon as she approached, she spotted _him_.

He was beautiful.

His coat was golden brown, with a dark mane and tail. He was tall, nearly eighteen hands, and was lithe and muscular, much bigger than the horses she usually rode.

She knew instantly that he was a horse of war, not bred or trained for princesses.

And she knew that he was the only horse for her.

She inspected the other horses first, knowing the the riders would not take her seriously if she went to stand with the Minas Tirith men, who were all admiring the stallion. She listened to the riders talk about the stallion in well-spoken Westron.

She was examining a front hoof of a brown mare when someone spoke softly from behind her, startling her. “Enjoying the view?”

She jumped, dropping the hoof in her surprise, and the horse took a wary step away from her. She whirled around and saw a tall, though not nearly as tall as his king, rider standing before her. He seemed to be of forty or so years of age, and was well built and handsome. His long golden-brown hair was gathered back in a braid, and he had a thick beard. _“She’s a magnificent horse,”_ she said in Rohirric, hoping that she was not doing the language too much of an injustice.

The man raised an eyebrow, obviously impressed that she knew his tongue, but did not comment on it. He smiled at her and, with a twinkle in his eye, replied in Rohirric, “ _I wasn’t talking about the mare.”_

“ _Oh?”_ Lothíriel’s eyes flickered to the stallion, and then she quickly looked back at the man, disappointed in herself for losing.

_“His name is Aethelnod,”_ the man said, nodding in the stallion’s direction.

“Bold Noble,” she translated, allowing herself a more appreciative look at Aethelnod.

The man nodded. _“What is your name, girl?”_ he asked in Rohirric.

She eyed him, not sure she liked behind referred to so informally, but she was dressed in simple clothes, although finely made, so him mistaking her for a common girl was to be expected. “Yaven,” she said swiftly, choosing a simple, common named. If this man thought her a commoner she did not see any reason to correct him. She returned the question in Rohirric as well. “ _And your name, Rider?”_

The man grinned at her. _“Éothain, son of Éotharn.”_

She blinked. That named seemed awfully familiar… “King Éomer’s right hand man?” she asked, intrigued.

The man nodded. “Of a sort. You have made a study of the Riddermark?” he asked. “You speak our language well for a lass from Stoningland.”

“I like to be well informed of our allies,” she said dismissively. Such words were a mistake, she realized instantly, for her manner of speech and the fact that she was well learned was a clue to her status.

_“Aethelnod is a fine horse,”_ Éothain said in Rohirric, “ _But he’s a forebisen.”_

She looked at Éothain quizzically, for she did not know the word.

“That is, an example,” Éothain continued in common. “For future orders. I’m afraid the Riddermark cannot afford to offer our best horses to foreign lands, even to our allies. This horse is just to show our neighbors what we can offer in the future when our herds replenish. So they can start ordering.”

This confirmed Lothiriel’s belief that Aethelnod was a great horse, even by Rohan’s standards. _“_ And the rest of these horses?” she asked, although she was far from interested in any other horse here.

“They are for sale,” he confirmed. “Although Éomer King vets any potential buyers, and he has final say in who becomes their new masters.”

Lothíriel scowled. She had zero chance at buying Aethelnod now, even if he wasn’t a ‘forebisen’.

“You do not want Aethelnod,” Éothain said, “He is a magnificent horse—a descendent of a Meara broodmare even, but he’s too powerful—”

“I’m a skilled rider,” she interjected, drawing herself up to her full height, which was the better side of five inches shorter than him.

That too was a mistake, for this confirmed _his_ suspicion that she was a lady of high status. After all, a common woman of Minas Tirith would never have experience riding a horse, especially enough to be ‘skilled’. She cursed her pride.

“Have you ever ridden a stallion?” he asked, skeptical.

Lothíriel hesitated, knowing that the answer was already plain on her face.

“I’m afraid that my king would never allow an unexperienced young maiden such as yourself to buy, let alone ride, a war horse,” he said. “It would be too dangerous. And Aethelnod is precious to us—he is a fine specimen, and he is only here for buyers to order his offspring.”

She scowled again, not caring that it was unseemly or unladylike to do so. “Perhaps if I prove myself?” she offered.

Éothain’s eyes flickered to the side, and Lothíriel’s gaze followed his. They both looked at the gray stallion a ways off. He must have seen her calm the gray. “I’m afraid Éomer King would still be reluctant,” he said. “Even if you are as masterful of a rider as you claim to be, a war horse is not suitable for a lady of Gondor.”

“Is one suitable for a lady of Rohan?” she challenged, dropping all pretenses now.

Éothain could not help but smile. “It is rare,” he admitted. “But Lady Éowyn had one.”

“There,” Lothíriel said, triumphantly, “Surely if his _sister—”_

“Lady Éowyn was trained from birth to ride,” Éothain said. “You won’t get two words out of him before he refuses. And when he makes up his mind there is no changing it.”

Lothíriel was silent. Not only from her own disappointment, but the realization that Éothain’s last sentence inferred more than just the matter of selling horses. “Perhaps…” she began, before hesitating. Making up her mind, she continued on firmly. “Perhaps you could train me to ride Aethelnod. Give me tips, and _then_ I could prove myself to Éomer King,” she said, opting to use the verbal formatting that Éothain had used for good measure when talking about the king of Rohan.

Éothain thought about this, and seemed almost to agree to it, before shaking his head with clear decisiveness. “He would rightfully skin my hide if I endangered anyone like that.”

“Your king doesn’t even know me,” Lothíriel pointed out.

“But you _are_ a woman. A noblewoman no less—don’t try to deny it,” he said, when she opened her mouth to protest. “I can see through your deception that you are of high birth. I don’t know who your father is, but I’m betting to believe he would not be thankful if you received injury or death because you rode a horse you have no business riding.”

And that was the end of it. He had closed the discussion. Lothíriel let out an exasperated sigh, and looked back at Aethelnod longingly. The Gondorian men had moved on, heading back into the city. “May I at least greet him?” she asked.

Éothain gazed her, before sighing and nodded, motioning for her to approach Aethelnod.

She pushed back her hood, thankful that her thick, dark hair was so common in Gondor that it would not alone give away her identity, and walked up to the stallion. Like the gray, his ears perked back, and then forward when she began to whisper sweet nothings to him in the elven tongue. The other two riders and Éothain watched, mesmerized, as she held out her hand, palm out, fingers outstretched. Aethelnod sniffed her hand, and then she crossed the distance between them and stroked in soft muzzle.

The two riders whispered to each other and Éothain whistled in awe. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps you _are_ a skilled horsewoman. If you did not look so southern I would say you had Eorlinga blood in you.”

Lothíriel smiled at him, before returning her attention to Aethelnod. The more she spoke to him, the more she knew that nothing in Middle Earth would please her more than to call him her own. Or perhaps, she mused, it would be more accurate if she belonged to him. To gallop into the horizon across golden plains… Then, she would know true freedom. She _must_ be his rider, if it were the last thing she did. _Éomer King is not the only person who never changes their mind,_ she thought fiercely.

The two riders left, for they had other duties to attend to, and the horses of Rohan needed no guarding, but Éothain stayed, watching her and Aethelnod with keen interest.

“My Lady,” he began, finally, after long minutes had passed.

“Yes?” she asked, looking up at him, startled slightly. She had nearly forgotten he was there. Aethelnod snorted angrily, stamping his foot in surprise at the lack of attention directed at him.

Éothain regarded them. “My king would never allow you, as you are now, to own, let alone ride, Aethelnod,” he said. “But we Eorlinga have a firm belief that the horse chooses his rider. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps a little training is in order.”

Lothiriel’s face lit up and she took a step forward to hug the man, before realizing how unsuitable that would be, even if she wasn’t a princess. Instead, she curtsied low. “When, how—when?” she stammered in her rush to get the words out.

He sighed, defeated. “Tomorrow. I’m too busy to give you any real attention today. My Lord King will be busy during the days until the end of the week, until after the wedding, when we will return to Edoras. Come two hours before noon, each day.”

She bit her lip to keep from crying out in excitement. That time was when King Elessar was, without fail, in meetings with his advisors. Her father, too, her two elder brothers, and most likely King Éomer, would be in the meeting then as well. She said, serenely with a curtsey “Thank you, Lord Éothain.”

He roared with laughter, hand on his stomach, and then said, chuckling. “I am no lord. But make sure you are not late. And mind you, I’ll treat you as harshly as I treat the boys I train.”

She nodded, beaming at him. “Good,” she said. “I don’t plan on taking my training easy.”

He grinned at her. “You remind me of my daughter,” he said. “She’s only eight, but she’s a spit-fire if there ever was one, and already a skilled rider.”

Lothíriel turned back to Aethelnod, kissing his muzzle gently before stepping back and lifting her hood over her head and hurrying away after giving Éothain a quick farewell. Aethelnod whinnied after her, but she knew she had to make it back to her family’s house before her father returned. He would not think kindly to her wandering about by herself, especially in the Rohirrim encampment.

She slipped through the gate, and up the long winding path to the sixth circle, entering through the garden gate, and found, to her dismay, Amrothos standing in the middle of the garden path, holding a stalk of gillyflower, and gazing at it sorrowfully.

She tried to walk by without disturbing him, but his senses were disturbed and soon he called out her name. She flinched and stopped, turning and pushing back her hood.

“Lothíriel,” he repeated. “What were you doing? Where did you go?”

“Out for walk,” she said, nonchalantly, and began to walk towards the back door.

“Hold on,’ he said, hurrying to catch up to her. “Why do you smell like horse?”

“I went to the royal stables,” Lothíriel lied, hating that she had to resort to doing so.

Amrothos frowned. “Did you go to the camp?”

Lothiriel’s face twitched slightly as she tried to keep a straight face, and hurried forward to the door.

“Lothíriel!” Amrothos called after her, but she shut the door and bolted it from the inside. It was childish, but she’d rather not deal with her bothersome brothers at the moment.

“Ah! My lady!” she heard Elaria cry, and the girl rushed at her, nearly hugging her but seemed to realize better. “I have been looking for you forever,” the girl wailed. “You weren’t in your room, and then—”

Lothíriel cursed under her breath. Of course Elaria would have checked on her at some point, most likely to ignore her request and bring her meal anyway. “Who else did you tell?” Lothíriel asked, grabbing the poor girl by the shoulders.

“Just Cook,” Elaria said, sniffing slightly.

Lothíriel sighed in relief. Elaria was too shy to bother anyone else, let alone Lothiriel’s brothers and never Lothiriel’s father. “I was out for a walk,” Lothíriel said, “To clear my mind.”

“But you skipped breakfast,” Elaria protested.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Lothíriel lied, letting go of her maid’s shoulders. “I was too nervous. For tonight.”

Elaria looked at her pityingly, and Lothíriel had to refrain from letting the guilt show itself on her face. “Are you hungry now?” her maid asked her.

“Yes,” Lothíriel said truthfully. “The walk worked up an appetite. I think I will go to the kitchens and get something to eat. And straighten things out with Cook. Please prepare another dress for me, this one smells.”

Elaria nodded and hurried off, and Lothíriel turned and entered the kitchen.

They had four kitchen staff in Minas Tirith, two girls and a boy, as well as a Cook. Cook was an old, plump and seemingly hard broiled woman with a heart of gold. She was head cook at Dol Amroth, and would travel with the family when they stayed in Minas Tirith.

“There you are,” Cook said, hands on her ample hips as she paused in the middle of her task of cutting carrots. “And where have you been, young lady?”

Lothíriel smiled. “Out for a walk,” she said.

“That’s what I told that ditzy maid of yours,” Cook said. “She was beside herself with fright. Why didn’t you leave a note?”

“I needed air,” Lothíriel said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“I wouldn’t have been worried if you hadn’t skipped breakfast,” Cook said. “That’s not like you, Loth.” She returned to her work after barking a few orders at her staff. “Here, have some leftover stew.”

She pointed her knife in the direction of the pot. “It’s still hot. You can have some rolls and cheese with it too. You know where they are.”

Lothíriel did indeed. Lothíriel knew the ins and outs of both the kitchen here and in Dol Amroth. Lothíriel served herself an ample serving of stew, grabbed a few rolls and a small block of cheese out of the pantry, and sat at the long table, far out of Cook’s way. She started with the soup, eating the chunks, carefully for it was hot, and then tore the rolls and dipped the pieces into the broth. Once she had scrapped the bottom of the bowl clean, she sliced the cheese and ate it with the rest of the bread.

“I would say save some appetite for lunch, but I doubt you’ll need to,” Cook laughed. “Now off with you. You smell of horse and I don’t want to know where you’ve been, but I can guess you don’t want your father to know either.”

Lothíriel sent Cook one of her infamous smiles, and then walked out the kitchen door and into the servant’s hall.

Tommorrow she would be heading back to the encampment for her first lesson with Éothain and Aethelnod.

Suddenly, things didn’t seem so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED…?
> 
> Hi! I apologize for like,, posting one chapter and then never updating after that. Let me know if y’all would like to continue reading this story! 
> 
> Thank for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Lothíriel had not enjoyed the rest of the day. During both the mid-day and evening meals, her father had made pathetic attempts at promoting King Éomer’s image, telling her of his many positive traits and accomplishments. She did not know if her brothers had told him she was aware of his scheming, but she supposed it did not matter. She felt betrayed, and if he acknowledged his betrayal she knew her tempter would get the better of her.

Amrothos had sat near her at both meals, and had spent both meals trying to get out of her where she had gone that day.

After the evening meal—of which she had eaten very little out of nerves and annoyance, mostly due to her father’s insistence that she hear every single virtue of the man they all knew she would end up marrying—she retreated to her chambers. In her room, she stood before the tall mirror—staring at her reflection. Each bedroom was equipped with its own full length mirror, showing the wealth and status of their father, though she knew she had the largest and brightest mirror in the whole household. She turned slightly to get a better view, then faced the mirror fully again.

“What do you think, Elaria?” she asked.

Elaria nodded fervently. “Beautiful, my lady.”

“Good,” Lothíriel said. “Fetch me pearls, the short one.”

As Elaria went to fetch the necklace, the door opened and Amrothos stepped in.

She said nothing, for she feared if she asked him why he was here he would ask _her_ , again, where she went earlier that day. She might as well have asked, for after sitting down, he launched into the dreaded question. “Are you going to tell me where you went or not?”

Elaria handed her the pearls, and Lothíriel donned them. “I did not realize it was your business where I went or what I did,” she said, admiring the delicate craftsmanship of the necklace, and how well it went with the cool grey of the dress. “The pearl headpiece, too, I think,” Lothíriel told Elaria.

“I’m your brother,” Amrothos said. “Your business _is_ my business.”

Lothíriel regarded him in the reflection of the mirror. He was serious. She both loved and hated how protective her brothers were of her. But in the moment it was a great _nuisance_. “Everything is fine,” she said. “I just took a walk, that’s all.”

“To the Rohan encampment?” Amrothos asked.

She snorted. “As if I would visit them. And what would I do? Go see the king himself and give him a piece of my mind?”

Amrothos’ face showed he had thought exactly this. “Don’t worry, Brother,” Lothíriel said, letting Elaria entwine the pearl headpiece in her hair. “I’m not that foolish.”

She looked at her reflection. The headpiece consisted of threads of silver woven loosely together, beaded with large pearls each an inch apart. It threaded through her hair, and was rather delicate and stunning.

“You will be…courteous to him, won’t you?” Amrothos asked, sounding nervous.

She sighed. “Do you have so little faith in me?” she asked, although she had been asking herself the same question all day. Would she be able to be courteous to this king of Rohan? “I know that he did what he did for his people,” she said, faking admiration for the sake of her brother. “And besides, it’s not his fault I did not reply to his letter—” she clamped her mouth shut, realizing too late that her mouth had once again gotten the best of her.

Amrothos frowned. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Lothíriel said, straightening the silk of her gown. “How do I look?”

She turned and flashed Amrothos a smile.

“Loth, what are you talking about?” he asked, a little too seriously for her liking, as he quickly stood from his lounging position.

Lothíriel sighed “Last month he sent me a letter. He was asking, I believe, for my permission to woo me. I didn’t reply because he had clearly asked Father for permission _first,_ and then I was too busy preparing for the trip _here_ to think too much of it. And now I know that the only reason he sent me the letter was because he had already started spending my dowry.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, not caring that she may crumple her dress.

“Loth,” Amrothos said. “Why did you never speak of this? I don’t think even Father knows.”

“Well, that is both a credit and discredit to Éomer King,” Lothíriel said with some derision.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, the fact that he did not complain to Father that I never replied shows propriety,” she said. “But the fact that he did not give up meant that he does not care for my feelings.”

Her brother was silent. “You can still back out of it,” he reminded her. “Father would never… _force_ you to marry someone. Especially if you truly set your mind against marrying him.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t believe I can back of this. I will have to marry the Horse King and live out my days in a strange land with no friend by my side.”

“That’s not fair,” her brother pointed out, sitting beside her on the bed. “Éomer could be your friend if you allowed him to be.”

She looked up, at herself in the mirror. Perhaps her brother was right. Perhaps King Éomer _could_ be her friend. Even if they never found love with each other. They could still be friends. Or at the very least, _allies_. Which she imagined could often be more advantageous in a spouse. Especially when there is no love involved.

There was a knock at the door and their father’s voice was heard on the other side. “Are you ready, Lothíriel?”

“Yes!” she called out, and stood. “Ready?” she asked her brother.

He nodded and stood as well.

“Elaria, you are dismissed until I return,” she said, and the girl curtsied a farewell.

Together, brother and sister walked to the door and out, joining their father and other brother in the hall, before setting out for the evening ball.

* * *

The air was thrumming with conversation and music as they approached. Light shone from the windows.

She was glad there was no announcer tonight, for they entered without much notice. Heads turned and nodded in acknowledgment, and then returned to their business. Her brothers, trailing behind her and her father, went off, each most likely to find a noble woman whom they would dote upon for the evening.

Lothíriel noticed with dismay that her father was leading her to the head of the hall, where King Elessar and Queen Arwen could be seen speaking with a few men from Rohan. One she recognized as Éothain, and it took all her self-control not to turn and flee. She knew he would recognize her, so there was no avoiding him finding out who she really was. Her only thought was that he would now refuse to train her to ride Aethelnod, which would mean that this evening would take an even sourer note than before. The Queen noticed them first, her eyes locking with Lothiriel’s. The Queen always made Lothíriel slightly self-conscious, for she was beautiful beyond reason, and so serene and conserved that she made Lothíriel feel like a bumbling toad. The Queen smiled as they approached, and her husband looked past the man standing beside Éothain, and smiled when he spotted them.

The man beside Éothain was, Lothíriel realized with great shocks he same man she had guessed was King Éomer earlier that day. He was wearing a long, dark green velvet tunic, slit at the sides, and brown pants. He wore boots that looked comfortable but not altogether refined, and his hair, much, _much_ longer than the norm in Gondor, hung almost to the small of his back in a long braid.

Éothain noticed her first, and his mouth hung open slightly, before he quickly recovered and spoke a word to his king. The man turned, and for the first time, Lothíriel got a good look at her husband-to-be. He was handsome, although the lower half of his face was covered slightly with a thick, short beard. He had straight, dark brown eyebrows, and eyes that appeared dark, but she guessed were actually a light blue or blue-green like the others from his land.

_He was incredible handsome._

He nodded at Imrahil, and turned his attention to her.

Suddenly, a dark desire crept like an ivy into her very soul. How she wished she could run up to him and give her a piece of her mind! Shout at him, tell him how horrible he was for taking part in the chaining of her life. She cast her eyes downwards lest he see them flash with anger, and suddenly knew she _could not marry this man_ , even if he _was_ incredible handsome.

She could never marry a man who did not respect her. Was the fact that she never responded to his letter a message enough? Was he so proud that he could not return however much of her dowry that had already been paid to him?

Her father was oblivious to her internal conflict, and instead stopped before them and bowed.

“King Elessar, Queen Arwen,” her father said once he had straightened. “King Éomer, my I present my daughter, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

She curtsied again, not as graceful as she was capable of, but sloppy and quick, keeping her eyes downcast. There was an uncomfortable silence, before she heard the deep voice of King Éomer say, “A pleasure to finally be introduced to you, Princess Lothíriel.”

 _A pleasure indeed!_ What did he care? Would he have not rather preferred to have met her on their wedding day, so as to limit the amount of time he had to spend in her presence?

“The pleasure is all mine,” she said, her voice taut. She resisted the urge to shake her head to clear her mind of his resentful thoughts, but she found her anger and despair were taking root in her gut and her mind would not settle.

There was another awkward silence, for the song had just ended, and no one in their little circle was speaking. Finally, King Éomer asked, “May I have the next dance?”

She was about to lie that she wasn’t fond of dancing and had two left feet, but her father replied for her, saying, “She would love to, My Lord—Lothíriel loves to dance.”

She gave her father a severe look, ready to throw caution to the wind and glare at him and King Éomer both, but found that her father was giving her one of his warning looks, and not one to be ignored. She bit the inside of her cheek, and looked back at King Éomer. “Yes,” she said, forcing her voice to be calm and sweet. “I would love to.”

She accepted his arm and he led her to the dance floor, where the music had started up again.

He was a surprisingly good dancer, and not as flamboyant about it as her brothers often were. He moved with the grace of a warrior, and his hand was gentle in holding hers, his other hand only lightly resting on her waist. She did not look at him throughout the entire dance, not daring to let herself to. He made some effort at conversation, commenting on the ballroom and the music, but she made no effort to carry the conversation on, and soon they resigned to dance in uncomfortable silence.

The dance ended, and he guided her back to her father, clearly understanding that she was not interested in another dance.

Her father’s expression was a storm as he watched them return, and a quick glance told her that both King Elessar and Queen Arwen were both filled with bemusement and pity.

She spotted Erchirion across the hall, at a table with refreshments, and her mouth watered slightly. The King’s kitchen was envied across the kingdom, and two nights ago, when she and her family had been guests at the King’s table, she would have enjoyed herself fully, had she been allowed to stuff her face in the King’s presence.

“Excuse me, My Lords, Your Highness,” she said, “I wish to speak to my brother.”

Her father looked as if to protest, but she did not wait for him to speak on her behalf again, and turned around and quickly left. When she reached the table, she was aware of their eyes on her. Knowing they were watching, she ignored her brother, who had not noticed her yet, and gingerly picked up a biscuit, popping it into her mouth. Her father was most likely apologizing already on her behalf. She felt sorry for King Elessar and his queen, for they did not deserve to be on the receiving end of her cold wrath. But her father and King Éomer _did_ deserve it, she reminded herself, when she started to feel sorry even for them.

“Loth,” her brother said, just noticing her from across the table, looking up in surprise.

She smiled at him. “Are they still watching?” she asked.

He looked confused, and she pointed behind her, careful to make sure to keep her hand hidden from any watchful eyes. Erchirion’s eyes flittered past her. “Only Éomer is still looking. Oh wait, Lord Rahrin and his daughter are approaching, so he’s now looking at them.”

Lothíriel turned slightly, and saw that Lord Rahrin and his daughter were indeed speaking with the king of Rohan. Her eyes moved slightly and she suddenly caught in the gaze of Queen Arwen. The woman smiled, and the emotion on her face was clear. Pity…and amusement. What a treacherous combination.

She turned her attention back to the table. There was still a surplus of food. The women had barely touched anything, it seemed, and most of the men were too busy conversing with each other and the women to eat. Only Erchirion and Lothíriel were paying much attention to the food.

“It’s good,” her brother said, picking up a scallop wrapped in bacon and dipping it generously into the sauce that accompanied it. He popped it into his mouth and savored the taste. “You’ve got to try it,” he said, pointing.

“I have,” Lothíriel said, but she did again anyway. The scallop was tasty, though it would have been better if it had been fresh like she was used to, living on the coast, as she was. But the sauce was magnificent. “We need Cook to learn that recipe,” she said. She scanned the table to survey what else was there, and then, when she found to her satisfaction that nearly everything looked and smelled delicious, set to tasting every single dish.

“The King of Rohan won’t want you if you keep eating like that,” her brother laughed. “You’ll blow up like a pufferfish.”

Lothíriel made a face, mocking him. She rolled her eyes.

“What is that grimace for?” Erchirion asked her.

Lothíriel sighed. “I’ve grown rather bored of this ball.”

“You’ve not been here even one hour,” her brother chuckled. “And you ate for most of it.”

Lothíriel grinned at him. “I’m going to take a break. Don’t wait up,” she added.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he said. “But for now, I’m going to talk to Lady Adelaide now that her husband is busy talking to Father.”

Lothíriel snorted is disgust and then hurried to the servant’s hall. It was busy, and she barely escaped out the door without behind knocked over. Once she was outside she had to hurry, and stay away from the servants walking from the kitchens, which were attached to the King’s house.

She thought about going to visit the kitchens, but she was more than full after having sampled every dish available, and thought instead to go to the Queen’s garden. It wasn’t a new location in the citadel, but the Queen had given it new life, and it flourished much more than it had when it was under the care of her uncle, the former Steward. She strolled down the path, and passed the glass windows that both let an outsider have insight to the splendor of the ball, as well as left an empty feeling from the light that fell out of them.

She hesitated, gazing inside, looking for the king of Rohan. He was dancing with Lady Urwen, Lord Uthenial’s daughter. No doubt he would be dancing the entire night away if he continued like this.

She laughed slightly. Hopefully he’ll find a woman with just as big a dowry as hers, and settled own with her in Rohan, and be perfectly content.

For him, she knew this would not be an ideal situation. He would still have to pay back whatever amount of her dowry her father had already given him.

She clenched her fists. The audacity of those two! Deciding what was best for her without even consulting her first! Her father and brother Elphir both had arranged marriages, and they seemed to have come to an understanding, even love, with their partners. But still, her father had promised her since she was a little girl that her marriage would always be her choice, in the end. To think he would so blatantly lie to her like this…

Standing in the light of the window, feeling cold from the fall air, she decided to head back to her father’s townhouse. She did not fancy embarrassing herself in front of any lords or ladies tonight. The only reason she had been invited was because of King Eomer’s interest in her.

Though she was now of marriageable age, she was still six months too young to be presented officially to Gondorian court. King Elessar had made a personal request for her to be presented early, which only confirmed her suspicions that he too was in on this little game.

She walked to the edge of the garden, and walked along the wall, in a flower bed, before she reached a large, tangled bush. Grinning, and hoping that it was still there, she crawled behind the bush and, not caring that the bush had grown considerably since she had last used this escape route, found wood and a latch. Her grin widened and she pushed the door open. The space was small, and she had to hunch over in order to fit, but the steep staircase within the wall led straight to the sixth circle. This way she would not have to deal with the guards protecting the citadel and explain why she was leaving without an escort.

Once she was out on the street of the sixth circle, she quickly crossed the road and through the garden gate. She did not bother finding Elaria, who was not expecting her until the early morning hours, and went straight to bed, slipping out of her gown and jewels and into a chemise, crawling into her cold bed without even lighting a candle first. She was exhausted, full to the brim with food, and had much to think about.

Her father would be furious that she left, of course. But that was better than having to see the King of Rohan _again_. She scowled. If only her anger had not gotten the best of her. If only she had been able to act cordially. She had assured her brothers that she would be the perfect lady with him, and not lash out, but the unfairness of this all had…overtaken her.

Wondering if she should apologize to the man, she fell asleep, in pain from the brambles and feeling thoroughly embarrassed with herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued…
> 
> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> See you soon!


End file.
